


A Thought of Grief

by Kess, lirin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: pod_together, Gen, Malfoy Manor, Podfic, Post-Battle of Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 20:06:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11585274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kess/pseuds/Kess, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lirin/pseuds/lirin
Summary: There was a tension in the quietness at Malfoy Manor, after the war was over.





	A Thought of Grief

****

 

 **Written by:** Lirin

 **Reader:** Kess

 **Cover Artist:** Kess

 **Fandom:**  Harry Potter

[here's the mp3, if you would like to listen to the recorded version](http://kesskay.parakaproductions.com/Podfic/Harry%20Potter/%5bharry%20potter%5d%20a%20thought%20of%20grief.mp3) (length: 00:21:54 | size: 20MB)

(left click to stream, right click and save as to download)

 **Reader's Notes:** This was supposed to have a music/sound effects version, but RL and health got in the way. Nevertheless! This was an absolute joy to read, and working with Lirin was exciting and fulfilling. I hope this is as enjoyable to read/listen to as it was to record!

 

 

 

***

 

The Malfoys ate dinner in the breakfast nook.

Nobody had ever been killed or eaten by a snake in the breakfast nook. No lower-level servants of the Dark Lord had ever been raised above their station to sit at it. Besides, come to think of it, the dinner table was much too big for three.

It was to be a simple dinner: consommé, poached turbot, beef roast, Périgourdine salad, and hazelnut torte. They had all been much too overwhelmed by the events of the last forty-eight hours to be able to give the house-elves any sort of proper instructions, so they had to be content with what the elves had scraped up.

Nobody said much of anything at first. Mother didn’t look up from her plate until they were halfway through the fish course. “There will need to be a funeral for Bella,” she said suddenly.

Father started, nearly dropping his fork. “A funeral? If someone else arranges it, I suppose we could attend. But in these troubled times, we can’t risk calling attention to our connection with her.”

“But she’s my sister.”

“Yes, and she’s dead. She’ll never know whether you’re holding a funeral for her. The only people who _will_ know are people who never liked her. Because everyone who liked her is dead—if anyone even liked her in the first place.”

Draco decided he didn’t want to take sides in this particular argument. Instead, he served himself a second helping of fish, since the house-elves had all wandered off somewhere and weren’t around to serve him.

“She’s family,” Mother said. “I hope you haven’t suddenly decided that family isn’t important?”

“Don’t put words into my mouth,” Father snapped. “If—perish the thought—it were you or Draco, I would spare no expense. But Bellatrix, firstly, is dead; secondly, she’s a more distant relation; and thirdly, she’s a political liability at a time when we have little enough political capital as it is.” He took an angry bite of turbot.

“I’m not asking you to care about her for herself. I’m asking you to care because I cared about her, and I’m your wife.”

“Did you care about her?” Father asked. “Did you really, truly care for Bellatrix Lestrange?”

Mother glared at him. Draco cut his turbot into very small pieces and didn’t say anything.

After a moment, Father stood up from the table. “I’m not hungry any more,” he said, and stormed out.

Draco ate a forkful of very small turbot pieces. Mother glared at the chair where Father had been sitting. Draco ate another bite of turbot. It needed more seasoning. Mother slid off the bench and walked out of the room.

A house-elf appeared with the roast. Draco decided he wasn’t particularly hungry, and stood up from the table.

“Will Master be wanting the next course?” the elf asked. Draco shoved past him. “What about dessert? We can be skipping straight to the torte?” Draco ignored him, and the elf didn’t follow.

* * *

He didn’t see Mother or Father in the hall. Not that he’d expected to; the house was big enough that one could easily find solitude unless one sought otherwise. Right now, Draco supposed solitude would be acceptable. Trailing his hand along the banister—polished and free of dust; the elves knew better than to slack while the family was away—he climbed the stairs to the second floor, where his bedroom was.

The room felt unfamiliar. Ever since he’d grown old enough for Hogwarts, he’d never spent more than a few months of the year here. It didn’t really feel like _home_ any more.

This house didn’t feel like home any more. Sometimes he wasn’t sure if his family felt like home any more, either.

Aunt Bellatrix had been family once. She hadn’t been very nice to be around sometimes, but she’d taught him Occlumency and quite a few useful Dark spells. Now she was dead, cursed through the heart by a Weasel. Draco wondered if he missed her. He probably ought to.

He sprawled on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. No pangs of loss assailed him over his aunt’s death. Crabbe’s death, the fear he’d had for his parents’ safety over the past years—those still burned painfully, but next to them a scarcely-loved aunt seemed inconsequential.

His parents’ safety. That had been his chief concern for the last few years, ever since Father had ended up in Azkaban. The Dark Lord was not kind to his followers, and he did not tolerate failure. They’d had to let him use the house, Father had given him his wand, and the whole matter with Dumbledore—Draco liked to think that he would never have considered killing him if his parents’ safety hadn’t been at stake.

And now all that was gone. The Dark Lord was dead. The house was free of his servants and hangers-on. There was no need any more for Draco to spend his every moment worrying over his parents’ safety and his own. He wondered what new concerns would arise to take their place.

This room was boring. It had scarcely changed since he was eleven. Had he actually liked the mobile that filled the corner of the room, model broomsticks and Quidditch balls dangling from its branches? Its vivid colors had dulled with age, and half of the spells that kept it spinning had worn off, so that it twitched back and forth rather than turning in a circle. It wasn’t doing anybody any good like that. He might as well use it to test the heirloom wand Mother had found for him earlier.

“ _Evanesco_ ,” he growled. It didn’t really make him feel better.

* * *

Draco wandered back down the stairs. The lights were on in the library; they cast a triangle of light onto the hall carpet, from the half-open door. He pushed the door the rest of the way open, as he had nothing better to do.

Father looked up from the writing desk. “I’m sorry to have left early from dinner,” he said. “I hope you still enjoyed the rest of it.”

“I wasn’t hungry either,” Draco said.

“Oh. Well, I suppose these things will happen.” Father shifted in his seat and ran his quill through his fingers. “I’ve been asked to give evidence against the other—against the Death Eaters.”

“What, already? It’s been scarcely more than a day.”

“There are a great deal of people who just want to see things go back to normal, and the best way they see to accomplish that is to get everything over with as quickly as possible—arrests, trials, rehabilitation, anything related to the aftermath of the war. As for myself, I wish to see things go back to normal as well, and this seems the best way to accomplish that. And to keep you and your mother safe.” He dipped his quill in the inkwell and resumed writing. “My political influence is extremely limited right now, but I still have a few people who owe me favors. If I parlay those as carefully as possible, I think I might even be able to work my way back to a position on the school board in another few years.”

“And is that what you want?”

Father frowned. “What I want is to be a respected leader in a society that realizes that wizarding blood counts for something. I want to have enough status for you to be able to marry well. I want to have grandchildren playing on the grounds of the Manor, and I want to have distinguished guests who recognize it as an honor to be allowed to visit our home.” He sighed. “None of those possibilities seems quite as attainable as they did half a decade ago.”

Marriage. Funerals. How could everyone be thinking about such things when the war had scarcely ended? Of course, life would go on, but it didn’t have to go on just yet. Draco remained silent. If his father’s next question were to ask if he’d had any potential marriage candidates catch his eye recently, he thought he might scream.

Instead, Father changed the subject. “I was...not expecting your mother’s request earlier. I confess I hadn’t given much thought to Bellatrix, outside of being relieved she was no longer around. But you do understand, don’t you, why I don’t think it’s a good idea to hold a funeral?”

“I suppose so.”

Father bent to his writing again. The quill scratched along the paper. Draco wondered if Father meant it as a dismissal, but he didn’t feel in a hurry to leave. He didn’t feel in a hurry to do anything.

When Father spoke again, it was without looking up from the paper. “What do you think? Of your mother’s request.”

Draco frowned. “I suppose I agree with you that it would be politically unwise. On the other hand, these last few years haven’t been a time for abandoning family, so now shouldn’t be, either. And if it weren’t for Mother, we wouldn’t be as safe as we are right now. Her saving Potter’s life was the best thing that could have happened to us, as it turns out. So perhaps...considering that she earned political capital for us because of her love for family—being worried about me, I mean—perhaps we owe her the loss of political capital because of her love for family as well.” He scuffed his foot against the carpet. “I know it’s probably unwise, but it _is_ Mother, you know. And that counts for something.”

“I’ll take it under advisement,” Father said. He was still looking at his letter, but he hadn’t written a word in some time. “I do care for her. I always have. I just—” He set the letter aside and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. “It’s a very delicate situation,” he said.

“Yes, it is.”

“Thank you for your input,” Father said. “Please close the door when you leave. Fool elves don’t seem to know how to close it properly.”

* * *

Draco thought he ought to make sure Mother was all right. After all, she was the only one of them who’d lost a sibling in the last forty-eight hours.

He walked back through the forlorn formal dining room and past the breakfast nook. A few of the dinner plates still sat there, abandoned garnishes wilting. Some house-elves were stacking dishes and wiping up crumbs. None of them got in Draco’s way.

The front door had slammed after Mother had left the table. But even without that, Draco would have known where to find her. The west gardens had always been her favorite part of their home. She visited them incessantly, made detailed maps of what she wanted planted where, and once or twice had even pushed the house-elves aside to water the flowers herself.

She was holding one of the flowers now. Some sort of daisy, Draco thought, with large petals that made it easy to see, even at this distance, how she was tearing the petals off one by one and letting them fall to the soil at her feet. Some of the petals were caught by the breeze, making their escape to wither and die a few meters away instead of in the bower itself. It didn’t seem much of an improvement.

Mother looked up as Draco entered the bower. “I’m sorry for spoiling dinner,” she whispered. She cast aside the petalless daisy and picked another.

“I’ve had dinners spoiled much worse than that,” Draco said. “And I wasn’t hungry anyway.”

“I wish you had been,” Mother said. “You’ve grown wan, these last few years. You need to eat better.”

“It’s just too soon,” Draco said.

“Too soon for what?” she asked. “Too soon to live?”

“Too soon to think about everything.”

“Can you stop thinking about it?” she asked, surprised. “I never can.”

Draco reached out and plucked a daisy for himself. He left the petals intact, rolling the stem slowly between his fingertips. “I’ve been trying not to,” he said. “Too much has happened. I don’t know yet where we go from here, and I don’t feel like I want to know.”

“I don’t know where we’re going from here either,” Mother said. “I never dared imagine a world where the Dark Lord was dead and the other side had won, and yet you and me and your father all survived.” She dropped the second daisy and stood up. “My mother would have been aghast—utterly horrified—at the thought of not holding a funeral for my sister. But then, my mother’s not around anymore, and I’m a different person from her. All I care about is you and your father, and if neither of you wants me to hold the funeral, then I won’t. I won’t.”

“There’s time yet,” Draco said. “There’s no need to make a decision today. Not about anything.” The breeze was picking up, and there were drops of rain in the wind. He stepped closer and handed her the flower he held. “I never told you how thankful I am for what you did the other day. You may have saved our lives. I know, from experience, that it isn’t easy to lie to the Dark Lord. I—thank you.”

Mother smiled, just a little. “You should get inside,” she said. “I think it’s going to rain.”

“You should too.”

“I will,” she assured him. “Just a few more minutes.”

* * *

Rain was falling steadily but lightly by the time Draco pushed the front door open. He thought he might see if his father had left today’s newspaper in the library. Or perhaps he’d rather read a book, one written centuries ago that wouldn’t even touch on any of the events of the last decade. He trudged across the hall. The shortest way to the library was through the dining room, the way he’d come. He reached for the hall door. He wondered if he ought to practice his spells instead of reading a book. He hadn’t concentrated on his schoolwork as much as he ought, these last few years.

When he opened the door into the dining area, sound spilled out, jarringly loud. Draco started at the noise. Father was the only person in the house, and he didn’t listen to music of any sort. Pulling out his wand, Draco hurried past the breakfast nook—now empty and polished—and into the main dining room, where the sound was coming from.

There were house-elves there, dancing on the table. On their formal dining table, at which Ministers of Magic and the Dark Lord himself had dined. A table on which a Hogwarts professor had died. Draco didn’t know whether to be relieved that it was only house-elves, or angry at their presumption. He hadn’t known that elves even danced. He’d never really paid attention to them. Perhaps he should have. After all, sometimes they made a difference—old Dobby had dropped their chandelier and rescued Harry Potter, not much more than a month ago. Should he say something to these elves? Perhaps he would have to pay more attention to them in the future, maybe acknowledge their presence once in a while. The music had stopped, he realized. The elves had gone; he must have frightened them away. It was just as well. They really should know better than to dance on the table.

Draco continued on to the library. He hoped the elves planned to clean and polish the table after themselves. It was disgusting, really. A proper house-elf would know to stay out of sight. It was just a sign of the times. There would probably be all sorts of fawning over house-elves soon, with Potter and his friends in control.

Father was still in the library, writing a letter. Draco ignored him and grabbed the _Daily Prophet_ from its pigeonhole. He paused for a second, considering telling Father that Mother might be coming around on the funeral plan. But it was Mother’s place to tell him, so Draco continued on. At the writing desk, Father was unaware of his hesitation.

* * *

Draco stopped in the doorway of his bedroom to throw the _Prophet_ on his bed, but then continued up the stairs to the roof. He wanted to make sure Mother had come in out of the rain.

The door to the roof creaked from disuse; it seemed ages since he’d been up here last. The rain had begun in earnest while Draco had been walking through the house. His shirt was soaked through in seconds, and his hair stuck to his head. Draco wiped away the water running down his face as best he could, and ignored the rest. What was water, compared to the smoke and fire of battle?

This was the best time of day to view the west gardens. The setting sun peeked out between the storm clouds to shine on the gardens, highlighting the oranges and reds of the honeysuckle, roses, and other flowers. A couple of bedraggled peacocks wandered in between the hedges. Normally, they were as beautiful as the flowers, but now their plumage was tightly furled against the increasing storm. Mother was just disappearing across the lawn towards the front of the house; the rain must have finally become too much for her.

When Draco had been little, he’d played in those gardens nearly every day Mother or Father would go out there with him and pretend to run away from him as they played tag, or Father would take him for a ride on his broom and tell him they were playing Quidditch. Mother said that Aunt Bellatrix used to play with him out there, before she was sent to Azkaban. But that had been too long ago, when Draco was very young, and he had no memories of it.

It was hard to care about someone who hadn’t been around much at first, and then when she had, had never really cared about them. It had always been clear that Aunt Bellatrix’s first and only love was the Dark Lord; what was mere family compared to him? She’d paid attention to them once in a while, when it suited her interest. She’d taught Draco Occlumency, but he suspected she had been motivated more by her hatred for Snape and for Dumbledore than out of affection for her nephew.

And when it came down to it, when the family had most needed support—when they’d been in near disgrace, these last few months—she had showed no interest in helping the family, or in protecting them. If Aunt Bellatrix hadn’t treated Draco as family, why should he do so for her? Water was falling in his eyes again, as if the sky were attempting to give him the tears he hadn’t shed for her, but he wiped it away. Even if Mother were to hold the funeral, he would not go, he decided. In this strange new life that stretched ahead of him, there was no need to cling onto more of the past than he cared for, and he had never cared for Bellatrix.

There would be many more decisions to make over the days ahead, but at least he was no longer standing still. Draco pulled the door open and stepped inside, wiping the water once again from his face. Where he had been, the storm raged on, but he had left the storm behind.


End file.
